The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (43 page)

Coming back from his thoughts, Rodger became aware that Sam was now looking over at him. He wished he hadn’t lied to Daigle. He knew Sam would be asking questions. He also knew he would be allowing it.

“Everything okay? You’ve been tense since we got here,” Sam asked, her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. She had a tired look on her face and dark circles under her eyes. Despite that, she looked genuinely concerned for him.

Rodger shrugged and said, “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now, Sam. I’m trying to figure out how to catch this killer before anyone else dies, how to keep my ass out of hot water, how to keep your ass out of jail, and how to keep Michael from hating my guts.”

Looking at him, Sam smiled a little and relaxed her shoulders. Rodger couldn’t help but notice how much like her father she looked like at times, despite inheriting both her hair and eyes from her mother.

Finally, Sam said, “You’re too harsh on yourself, Rodger. You’re trying to do too much. That’s why Michael and Richie and I are here—to lessen your burden, and to take some of the pressure off your shoulders.”

Rodger shook his head. “A nice sentiment, Sam. But let’s be realistic. It was your father who figured out the case last time, and he was a genius. Michael isn’t that good yet, although he will be one day, when he gains the intuition that Edward had back then. And you are a brilliant woman, much like your father, but you’re too deeply involved in this, on account of you being both a Castille and a suspect, to provide the objectivity I need. And, Richie, well, he seems like a nice guy, but… ”

“… he’s a bit of a goof, I know,” replied Sam, almost giggling for what seemed like the first time in two decades. “But he’s a lovable goof and a real sweet guy. Despite his lack of
grace and poise
, he has been essential in helping me come out of my shell for the first time in many years.” She accented that last statement with a faux French accent, arching her blond eyebrows at the old detective.

Rodger chuckled at Sam’s girlish ways, having not seen this much life in her since before her father’s murder.

Rodger’s thoughts were interrupted by the metal bars sliding aside, a sound soon eclipsed by the sounds of feet shuffling and chains sliding. Daigle’s voice could also be heard, saying, “Come on, Willie, the sooner you talk to the detective, the sooner you can get back to your books.”

“That’s a good thing,” replied a Southern gentleman in what sounded to Rodger like a thick voice, the kind of voice that sounds like someone with a throat too big to open properly. Pulling his emotions inward and seeing Sam do the same, Rodger mentally prepared himself for the interview.

Then Fat Willie rounded the corner, and Rodger instantly felt disgust. Calling him fat was like calling a volcano hot—it was a gross understatement. Fat Willie was obese, at least four hundred pounds, and could pass for a Caucasian Sumo wrestler.

He wore the same bright orange prison uniform one would expect of an inmate, but it was obviously tailored to his size. His face sported unsightly reddish stubble, and his hair, a mixture of red and spots of gray, was short and messy. His hands and feet were handcuffed and chained, loose enough so that he could walk, but not so that he could run.

And he smelled of hamburger grease.

Fat Willie, being escorted by Charles Daigle and a prison guard, entered the cell. Daigle sat Fat Willie down at the head of the table, patting him on the shoulder and saying, “Now, Willie, this is Detective Rodger Bergeron, and the charming lady with him is—”

“Samantha Castille,” interrupted Fat Willie. He nodded cordially to her. “William K. Benedict, otherwise known amongst members of the esteemed Louisiana Penal System as Fat Willie. It’s a pleasure to meet such a celebrated young lady, Miss Castille.”

When Sam just nodded, her lips tight and her face emotionless, Rodger could tell he needed to take control of the interview right then, or Fat Willie’s putrescence would make Sam lose her cool.

“Sam won’t be talking to you, Willie,” said Rodger. “She’s just here to watch. You will be talking with me.”

Fat Willie turned to look Rodger up and down, saying, “Weren’t you Edward Castille’s boyfriend?”

The jibe did nothing to Rodger’s mood, but he held his tongue and said, “Partner, Willie. He was my partner.”

Fat Willie nodded and scratched under his nose, saying, “My mistake. No offense intended.”

Not buying that for a second, Rodger turned to Daigle. “Give us about thirty minutes alone to interview him, okay, Charles?”

Daigle snorted and shook his head, saying, “You have fifteen. Any more and Whitley will have my ass.”

As Daigle and the guard started to leave, Fat Willie looked back and over his shoulder, saying to the assistant warden, “Hey, Daigle, give Warden Whitley my love.”

Fat Willie then puckered his lips and blew a kiss in a manner that was both obscene and unsettling. Turning back to Rodger and Sam, Fat Willie said, “See, Whitley is such a decent fellow, he wants to fix all of Angola’s violence problems. But what our venerable and honorable warden forgets is that man’s own nature is to fuck each other up, figuratively and literally.”

Leaning toward Sam, Fat Willie said, “Isn’t that right, Samantha Castille… sweetie pie?”

Rodger slapped the tabletop. When Fat Willie looked over, Rodger made a motion and pointed toward his eyes. “Talk to me. Not her. Me.”

“Fine,” replied Fat Willie, shifting his weight to look over at Rodger. “So, what can an exclusive lifetime member of the Louisiana State Penitentiary do for you?”

Rodger leaned forward to lock eyes with the repulsive convict. “You can start by telling me what manner of accomplice you were to Dr. Vincent Castille—the Bourbon Street Ripper.”

“Oh, come now,
accomplice
is such an ugly word,” replied Fat Willie with a sort of indignation about him. “And it’s so inappropriate for what I was assured would be a gentleman’s conversation.”

Rodger couldn’t believe what he just heard. “Excuse me, what?”

Leaning forward, Fat Willie started to rub a pudgy finger over the surface of the interview table as if he were caressing the skin of a lover. The motion was crude and left a trail of oil on the faux wood.

“You see,
accomplice
denotes assistance with the execution of the crime, or otherwise points to personal participation. Dr. Castille always kept to himself during those most intimate and, might I add, satisfying moments. No, I was more of an independent contractor facilitating the events leading up to the crime, instead of actually participating in a
ménage à trois
of suffering with the Bourbon Street Ripper.”

Fat Willie’s eyes trailed over to Sam, who visibly stiffened. Then the man leered back over at Rodger. Keeping that look, he said, “Besides, my weapon of choice is not a scalpel, but a seven-inch-long piece of spicy Cajun Boudin that makes the girlies cry.”

“You’re a serial rapist,” Sam said, her voice and gaze as cold as ice.

Fat Willie returned her gaze. “Guilty as charged, sweetie pie. And lucky for you, ladies with small tits and wide hips are my favorite. You see, I can easily pretend a woman like you is any age I want.”

Leaning forward, his mouth slightly open, the obese convict ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth.

Disgusted, Rodger said, “I think, Fat Willie, that you are full of shit, and that you never worked with Dr. Castille on anything. You’re just a two-bit rapist who could never keep up with someone like, oh, Giorgio Marcello.”

Slowly pulling his tongue back in and shutting his mouth, Fat Willie, who suddenly sounded less playful, said, “Well, now, Detective, you certainly hit below the belt. And here I was going to make our short visitation into something entertaining.”

Straightening up, he said, “As far as Marcello goes, he is how Dr. Castille found me. You see, when Blue-Eyed Marcello would get bored picking women up the old-fashioned way, he’d hire me to add a bit of spice.”

Returning to rubbing his pudgy, oily finger over the table’s surface, Fat Willie continued, “So I would make certain that Marcello’s nightly companion was grabbed, sacked, and delivered unharmed and… unspoiled.”

There was a loud sliding sound as Sam pushed back her chair, got up, and started to pace, eventually standing on the far side of the room, a look of repulsion and rage on her face. Rodger could empathize—Fat Willie was not only a serial rapist, but he had helped another serial rapist commit his crimes by kidnapping the victims.

Rodger was now easily able to figure out how Willie had helped Vincent. “So, you’re the one who kidnapped the Bourbon Street Ripper’s victims. Am I right, Willie?”

“Bingo,” replied Fat Willie, sitting back and shrugging. “In my defense, I had no idea what Dr. Castille was doing with the women. I thought he was trying to create another granddaughter.”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” said Rodger. “There’s no way you could not have known the women you kidnapped were being murdered. That shit was all over the news.”

At that, Fat Willie smirked. “I tend to keep to myself, Detective, and if I’m not playing directly with the goods, I don’t really think twice of them. Truth is, I didn’t know until his last victim, that Maple woman, had been kidnapped that Dr. Castille was the Ripper.”

Rodger, who was following along in disbelief, suddenly stopped and considered what Willie had just said. His brow furrowed for a moment as he said, “Wait a minute. You aren’t the one who kidnapped Maple and Dallas?”

Shaking his head, Fat Willie said, “Nope. Not at all. I do believe, if I may be allowed to theorize, that the doctor took them himself.”

Trying to figure out how a man in his seventies could accomplish such a feat alone, Rodger asked, “So, then, other than the Christofers, you kidnapped every other one of Vincent Castille’s victims?”

“I did,” replied Fat Willie. Then he scratched his head thoughtfully. “Are we counting Sam’s father as a victim? Because, if I remember from the newspapers, he kidnapped himself.”

Sam, who had been standing there and staring narrow-eyed at Fat Willie, sucked in a breath and gave him a look that spoke of premeditated murder. Her fists were clenched and she had almost-inhuman rage boiling in her eyes.

Rodger watched as Sam closed her eyes and turned away from Fat Willie. Looking back at the convict, Rodger asked, “So then, Fat Willie, have you been contacted by someone or something called the Nite Priory?”

This question seemed to take Fat Willie by surprise, and rearing back, he looked Rodger up and down as if he were a long-lost relative. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Suddenly, Fat Willie laughed out loud, a great booming laugh, and clapped his hands. “You have got to be shitting me. I honestly thought I was the only one to get a letter from this Nite Priory thing. But with you asking me about it, that can only mean one thing. This copycat is going around and contacting all of the Ripper’s old contractors, ain’t he? Sweet Josephine, that is too much!”

Taken aback by Fat Willie’s reaction, Rodger found himself growing more and more intrigued. From his point of view, both Topper Jack and Mad Monty seemed to be on the outer edge of the Castille murder ring, while it currently looked like Fat Willie was further inside.

The only loose end was how Blind Moses fit into the equation. Rodger shelved that thought for the time being.

“Do you have it with you? The note from the Nite Priory, I mean,” Rodger asked in a voice low enough to force Fat Willie to come closer.

Fat Willie grinned and said, “It’s in my cell. I will have my esteemed assistant warden, Mr. Daigle, get it for you after this interview.”

Rodger was glad there was no dirty joke or disgusting quip for once.

Sam spoke up. “I have a question for you.” She had returned to her seat and had her left fist clenched over what looked like a key chain.

Fat Willie rolled his head over to look at her, leaned forward, letting out a small fart toward Rodger, and said, “You can ask me anything, sugar-cooch.”

Sam’s fist squeezed the key chain several times in a pumping motion, her face getting less tense with every pump. “I’d like to know how Grandfather contacted you with instructions, Fat Willie. Did he leave notes, like the Nite Priory is doing?”

With a
smack
of his lips, Fat Willie leaned back, shook his head, and said, “He had his own personal courier who did all the messaging and shit for him. That bitch would show up in the middle of the night while I was sitting on my couch watching porn, or soaking my fat ass in the tub, or taking a goddamn shit. She’d stare at me all creepy like for a few moments and then start giving instructions. When she’d leave, there would be money stuffed in an envelope waiting for me.”

Rodger was keenly interested in this piece of information. He got Fat Willie’s attention and asked, “Who was this courier, Willie? We need a name.”

Fat Willie shrugged and said, “Why, Blind Moses, of course.”

The room went silent. Sam’s eyes grew, and Rodger, who was hit with two realizations—Blind Moses’ role in the original murders and her gender—just shook his head. He had never seen it coming.

Finally, Rodger said, “So, then, Blind Moses is a woman and was Vincent’s courier, correct?”

“Yes, indeed. And damn, that bitch was freaky,” replied Fat Willie, lifting up his belly and dropping it as if he was trying to make it bounce. “You ever had a blind woman stare at you? It was like the bitch could see. She had this misty look in those blind eyes, like there was something else inside there. Something inhuman.”

“What did she look like?” Sam quickly asked.

“How the hell should I know?” replied Fat Willie in a tone of increased annoyance. “You seen one nigger bitch, you seen ’em all. She worked for your granddaddy. You should know who it was. Really, it’s like you inherited your brains from your mother’s side of the family.”

Sam’s chair slid back, and she stood up and leaned forward, her eyes narrowing and her face full of rage. “What did you say?”

In a flash, Rodger was also standing, putting his hand out to get Sam’s attention. “Whoa! Whoa! Sam, calm down! This slime ball isn’t worth it.” He shook Sam’s shoulder, trying to get her to relax a bit.